Dr Watson and Mr Hyde
by o0ElLiOto0oRuTh0o
Summary: A wail of anguish. "Oh god no...What have I done?" Disclaimer: Don't own sherlock!


**Authors' note: Well, what can I say? It's a one-shot. It's dark, and might not make much sense and we tried realllly hard keeping it short but gah!**

John was shrouded in darkness, blackness that seemed to swirl and settle like inky mist around him. He tried to move his limbs, but realised he had no control over them. It was as if his body had a mind of its own, and he was a spectator in is own shoes: prowling through endless corridors, on a hunt for something.

Like looking through a bleary, out of focus set of binoculars, he saw someone going through the meticulous motions of cleaning up a bloodied knife, and spotted a particularly gnarly-looking corpse at their feet. Murder! Someone had just been murdered! Why couldn't he stop them!?

They were moving now, hurrying through streets and entering into a set of apartments that looked eerily similar to John's own. He could only hope Mary wasn't in there. Though he had no doubt she could easily more than fend off any above-average attacker, with her condition he didn't want her to go through such stress. He could really use some help right now..and where was that damned detective when you need him? Where in the Queen's name is...

"Sherlock! " John almost cried out in relief.

There, across the room, beside the entryway, was Sherlock Holmes, dressed immaculately in his dark suit, blue scarf and famous deerstalker. He looked amused, but there was a pattern of creases on his forehead that John had learned to identify as his "No funny business" look, one that was completed by the shining muzzle of the L9A1 Browning that was trained at whom John could only presume to be the perpetrator.

"Interesting. So it was you afterall." Sherlock mused out loud.

This earned a throaty chuckle to erupt from somewhere within the tried to spot the person who this voice belonged to, the one Sherlock was having this confrontationtation with, but try as he might , the only thing he saw beyond his current line of vision, was darkness.

"Had you any doubt?"

" Normally, I'd be obliged to say no. But this time infact, the one I'd doubted was not you, it was me."

John mentally staggered at that: Sherlock not doubting the criminal, instead questioning his own logical reasoning skills, his instincts, and even admitting his own weaknesses to the adversary? What is going on? Who exactly is this person? And why the hell couldn't John see him?

"Hear! Hear!" John heard that voice chuckle mirthfully, "The great Reichenbach Hero says he doubts even himself! Now whoever shall we go to if the _Apocalypse_ is upon us?"

"Oh now you are being cruel on purpose." John heard Sherlock complain, and did he just see Sherlock pout? But then the playful amusement was gone from his voice, like flicking a switch on his persona, and he was in his serious 'detective business' mode. "Really, is that what you were trying to do? To bring the _East Wind_ to England? But for what? What made you risk so much, take so many lives, and break all these rules?" and he looked genuinely perturbed.

"Rules, Sherlock? This is a GAME! There are no rules."

"But for what?"

"Isn't it obvious? It's all for you! I did it all for you, so you wouldn't leave me again for God knows where! So that you'd stay back and play the game!"

"So this is what this all is to you, a game? You hacked into National Security, broadcasted fake edited vidoes that made it look like Moriarty was back, rigged the London Eye with bombs and threatened to blow it up along with all those innocents aboardm and evenn compromised Mycroft's position!" John couldnt be sure whether Sherlock was acting or whether he was genuinely shaken up this much to question the morality behind the crime. For that wasn't the Sherlock that John knew. No, Sherlock wasn't a man of morals or ethics or justice; He was a man with his own agenda, one who made his own rules and followed them.

A pause, and the tension seemed to lay thick in the air.

"Don't tell me you don't like the games anymore, Sherlock?" the voice replied, cool even when facing a gun, and with a lilt the like of which reminded John of Moriarty.

And the perpetrator moved then, aiming his own gun at an unconscious body lying at his feet, and looked up mockingly at Sherlock as if to say 'What will you do now?'

"I wouldn't do that if I were you." Sherlock warned.

"Oh really Sherlock?" the voice chuckled darlky, humorously. "Do you even know who I am anymore?"

For a moment, Sherlock looked confused, hesiation evident on his usually guarded, emotionles face. But just as quickly as it came, it was gone, and Sherlock Holmes cocked his gun in reply, aiming it straight at the man's head.

"You know you wouldn't be able to do it." and John could feel the twisted, arrogant smirk in the man's voice.

"Well then you don't know me either."

BANG!

All of a sudden, John was broken out of his hazy stupor, as the sound of a gunshot rang out. As he regained his consciousness he became aware of a growing pain in his left shoulder.

He gripped his shoulder and whirled up to face the perpetrator, and there, behind the smoking barrel of the gun, was..

"Sherlock?!"

"Drop your gun John."

"What?"

"I believe you heard me the first time, John, drop it." Sherlock ordered, and nodded to John's left.

Baffled, John lowered his gaze, and there, sure enough, was a gun clutched expertly in the fist of his wounded arm. Blood now dripped down his arm and added to the rapidly growing puddle at his feet, and a wounded body lay sprawled in front of him, the body of Mary Watson.

John looked at the gun in his hand, then at the body of his wife lying was at his feet, a cold feeling of dread and nausea welling up in his stomach. He looked up at Sherlock again who had an almost pitying sombre look, one that spoke volumes. He connected the dots." Oh God what have I done?"

John sagged to his feet, unable to bear the weight of what he did, and what he was about to do, any longer.

He felt Sherlock walk up to him, but couldn't meet his eyes.

"I take it you weren't aware of what you had been doing until now." Was there pity in his voice? A sigh, then "I'm sure you've had it all figured out by now, but just to be clear, John, it wasnt your fault, not entirely."

"What?"John croaked.

"Simply put, you couldn't bear to have me leave you again like that. And to stop me, you did the one thing you knew I couldn't resist: you made me a challenge. With those series of Moriarty-esque messages you had me hooked, and the rash of killings and bombings assured that the officials wouldn't get much time to complain about the return of the only person capable of dealing with this. They left us alone, with their hands full with the mass panic of the messages, while you worked under the shadows.

"When you came to see me off at the airport after the incident with Magnussen, I had noticed something off about you, but I didn't nitpick on that. If I had, you wouldn't be in this mess right now." He sounded apologetic."You already have PTSD and a psychosomatic limp, it's only natural for you to develop this...this...multiple personality disorder."

"Y...You're saying I did all this? " John croaked.

"With the help of your loving wife who was ready to do anything if it meant gaining your love, and a select handful of others like her from the underworld, and subtle threats and manipulations of higher ups at just the right places, you managed to create the most elaborate game of crime and killing that I've solved.

So you see John, the messages, the murders, the bombings,the games, it was all you." Sherlock finished, dark amusement lacing his voice.

** The End?**

**A/N: Positive constructive criticism is as welcome as Mrs Hudson's cakes. Flames shall be dealt with a broken heart and chchocolate ice-cream. **


End file.
